


To Be A King

by a_good_soldier



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst, Character Death, Dreams, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Introspection, M/M, Pining, Prophetic Dreams, Supernatural Elements, Trauma, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-28
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-08-11 11:14:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7889281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_good_soldier/pseuds/a_good_soldier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But Merlin had never known violence; had never known blood, the feel of guts in his hand, the visceral stench of arms rotting off their still-living owners. The work of a physician’s apprentice is with the sick, the dying, the dead; but the work of a soldier is with the killing itself.</p><p>It is what it has always been. Merlin, for Arthur.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Be A King

**Author's Note:**

> so currently i'm working on what will likely turn out to be a 30k monster of a fic about the batfamily, BUT today i watched macbeth (the 2015 one with michael fassbender and marion cotillard) and the soundtrack and visuals were STUNNING. so stunning, in fact, that they inspired me to combine two weird drafts/outlines of possible merlin fics i had to create this. this fic is probably so #extra and unnecessarily melodramatic, but i figure i should get it out there before i start editing it 5 billion times (and abandon this 30k dc fic that i've been working on for like two months lol).
> 
> anyway it's about how merlin is like just a kid who comes to camelot and suddenly ends up having to do these terrible things to protect arthur pendragon, and also how creepy and terrifying fate is. skip to the end notes for spoilery warnings re: the character death tag and other explanations of tags.

Merlin’s mother had told him to keep his head down, and Will had forced it back up, and sometimes caught in the crossfire were small birds’ nests which alighted in plumes of irrepressible magic. Merlin has known how to be silent since before he could speak, and what it is to stay still since before he could walk. He has worked in the fields so his mother could let warlords take their livelihoods and still survive.

But Merlin had never known _violence_ ; had never known blood, the feel of guts in his hand, the visceral stench of arms rotting off their still-living owners. The work of a physician’s apprentice is with the sick, the dying, the dead; but the work of a soldier is with the killing itself.

What is the alternative, though? If Merlin had not killed Nimueh, had not poisoned Morgana, had not committed act after act of murder and betrayal: death and destruction. For Camelot, but also, most of all – Arthur.

It is what it has always been. Merlin, for Arthur.

—

Arthur finds out. The setting is immaterial; it is in a wood, or by the throne, or in his chambers, or on a turret. It happens as it was meant to.

There is an assassin, or a monster, or a storm, or a child; to Merlin, intent matters less than the potential of harm. It is always the same; someone must die for Arthur to live.

“What are you?” Arthur asks, after he has witnessed the magic of death. He is not yet King, not in name; still Merlin’s body hums with reverence.

Merlin does not say _a killer_ ; that much is obvious. Instead, he says something deeper than the earth, deeper than the ley lines that make him inhuman: “I’m _yours_.”

For now, it is enough.

—

Merlin feels as though he lives in a haze of fear. It is not enough to fear for Arthur’s life; he also fears for the future of the kingdom, should Arthur die. But that is a misrepresentation of his priorities.

It is not enough to fear for the future of the kingdom; he also fears for Arthur’s life.

The days blur together in a pounding heartbeat of _fear fear fear_. A storm comes, and he is afraid. A visitor comes, and he is afraid. He spends his nights honing the destructive magic he wields so easily and his days painstakingly building a shield around his King, and the few, too few hours in between contemplating the all-consuming power that threatens to outman him.

Two weeks after Arthur discovers his magic, Uther Pendragon dies.

—

It is a nightmare. When he hears the news, Arthur begs Merlin to save his father with magic; Merlin refuses, and is summarily shunned from Arthur’s chambers; Merlin secretly explores cures for death; Arthur drinks until he passes out.

When Arthur has sobered up and Merlin has pretended to forget about necromancy, Arthur sits vigil for Uther. Merlin waits outside the great hall with breakfast.

“I didn’t want you to be alone,” Merlin explains when Arthur emerges, surprised.

“Thank you,” Arthur says, quirking up a lip. He walks forward, with purpose, energy, _life_ , and Merlin thinks: _oh. How unworthy I am indeed_.

He follows anyway, knowing that soon enough he will be burned by Arthur’s sun.

Where else could he go?

—

She comes to Merlin in a dream, once. Later on, he will hate himself for his failure to negotiate peace.

But the dream is this:

Morgana is holding a young girl’s hand. The girl is frightened, although you would not know it to look at her; tears stream down her otherwise unmoving face. She is pale, but only because that is her complexion.

‘Morgana,’ he says, ignoring the girl. That is his first mistake.

The girl hisses; the moon behind her waxes, and the grass is silver in the light. ‘I am not afraid,’ she whispers.

‘I know–’

‘I was.’ The girl steps forward, but does not let go of Morgana’s hand. ‘Arthur wasn’t. Arthur was never afraid.’ The girl blinks. ‘Why do you protect him instead?’

Merlin is falling, falling, feet flat on the ground. Rocks prick his bare soles. ‘He’s our King,’ Merlin says.

‘ _He is no King of mine!_ ’ screams Morgana. The moon grows, impossibly. It is the size of Merlin’s fist now. ‘You are magic! Why do you protect a man who would have you dead?’

Merlin stays silent. _Because he is King_ , he thinks, nonsensically; being King did not earn Uther Merlin’s trust. _Because he is the King to be, the High King of Albion_ , he thinks, but even that is not enough. 

‘Because you love him,’ Morgana whispers. The girl is smaller, stands behind Morgana now. ‘Because you are arrogant, and think you love him more than anyone else. Because you think you are the only one he is safe with.’

Merlin blinks back tears, a lurching in his stomach. A bird caws.

‘I loved him too,’ Morgana whispers. ‘How else could I hurt him?’

The moon grows, until the sky is white.

—

Merlin is increasingly conscious of the disparity between his and Arthur’s actions; Arthur the hero, Merlin the villain. Arthur the light, Merlin the shadow. Merlin watches, awestruck, as Arthur lays waste to corruption and treason within the nobility, a gracious and beloved king. Merlin kills pretenders to the throne and vengeful assassins, and tries to unhear the wondrously betrayed _magic_ that is, inevitably, their last word.

Arthur happens upon one such scene, one killing out of a dozen within only the past month. The angered families of those killed in the Great Purge have started to come out of the woodwork, murderous intent festering in their starved bellies. They are on the run, hunted in their homes, placing faith in the idea of magical rule over Albion. Sometimes they whisper _Emrys_ in despairing realization when they recognize him.

Merlin shows no mercy.

“He would have killed you,” Merlin says over the body of some visiting noble’s servant. It is mostly true; the servant had recognized Merlin, and tried to seduce him to his cause before Merlin snapped his neck with an airy twist of his fingers. The immediacy of his plan was unclear, and therefore dangerous.

Arthur bows his head in shame. Merlin wonders if this is the last time he will be allowed to protect his King; only death would stop him. “Merlin,” Arthur breathes, “Merlin, Merlin, Merlin,” and kneels, and lays his hands on Merlin’s face, placing a gentle kiss atop Merlin’s hair. They stay there, embraced over this corpse, for one, two moments of stillness. Merlin tries not to shudder in disgust at his own filthy skin tainting Arthur’s spotlessness; the blood on Merlin’s hands is metaphorical, and cannot be washed away. 

“I hate that you’ve been forced to spill blood for me,” Arthur whispers.

Straining through the force of keeping his voice even, Merlin says, “I hate that no matter how much blood I spill, you will never be safe.” _No matter how many of my own I kill, you will never be safe._

Arthur kisses his hair again, and does not respond.

—

Arthur attempts to send him back to Ealdor. “I think it would be good to see your mother again,” Arthur says, even throwing in, “If I had the chance to see either of my parents again, I would.”

Merlin thinks of the times he has visited his family since he moved to Camelot. Will and Balinor: two graves in the ever-growing cemetery that lies in Arthur’s shadow. He remembers how close he came to losing his mother for Arthur’s life.

“No,” Merlin says, “I’m needed here.”

He stops a circus knife-thrower from skewering Arthur at the next banquet. Arthur doesn’t try to make him leave again.

—

The forest now is lit in crimson sunset, dying branches charcoal-black against the red sky. A dozen figures emerge from the woods into the clearing. A wolf growls behind him, and he feels animal spittle on the back of his neck.

They wear anticipatory mourning gowns, black in windblown smears. He knows none of their faces, and yet, the air that leaves his mouth breathes _mother_.

When he wakes, he does not remember this dream. The prophets call this mercy.

—

Merlin hears the news from a messenger who has ridden two days on horseback and has run, panting, up the castle steps to Gaius’ workroom. The words themselves will likely be lost to him forever, erased in the panic that engulfs him immediately. He only hears the roaring of his ears and the click of the door behind the messenger, and a quiet tinkle that he will later realize was a dozen bottles of now-unneeded sleeping draughts exploding, simultaneously, into dust.

In the end, he did not even have to visit his mother for her to be subsumed in Arthur’s wake.

— 

“My Lord,” Merlin says. He does not remember reaching Arthur’s chambers; only the door opening, and the wine on Arthur’s table, and the war plans in front of him. Arthur will be going into battle soon, he registers. Arthur’s life will be in danger soon.

“Yes, Merlin?” Arthur is distracted. He looks up briefly, and back down. He makes a note on the map.

“I–” He is, generally, unaffected by death. It is a side effect of his time here in Camelot. He is also, generally, unaffected by loss; there has been no grief that he could freely share with others, and so he has mastered the art of hiding it.

But this is his mother.

“I’m–” he tries again, to no avail.

“Merlin,” Arthur begins impatiently, but looks up, and freezes. Merlin wonders what he sees; he feels, suddenly, a wet droplet hit his collarbone.

“What’s wrong?” Arthur asks, abandoning his plans. Merlin tries to feel something for that, regret or guilt, but only feels loss. He is empty. He is empty.

Arthur was right. He should have seen her while he still had the chance.

“My–” He feels an ugly sound well up in his throat, and fights it back down. “My _mother–_ ” and it escapes, a screaming sob that shatters his voice into wreckage.

“ _Merlin_ ,” Arthur says, running to him. “Merlin, I’m so–”

“You were right,” Merlin cries into Arthur’s chest, “you were right, I should’ve– I should’ve–”

“Hush,” Arthur whispers, rocking them gently. “It’s all right, you couldn’t have known. Shh, shh. It’s not your fault.”

Merlin holds on to Arthur, and realizes that now, he truly has nowhere else to go.

—

Merlin returns home for the ceremony. His old neighbours stare at him with fear and condemnation in their eyes; they remember the rumours of his magic, and they resent the fact that he has earned himself a station in the royal household, and they accuse him of killing Hunith with his neglect. “She was so lonely,” old Farrah says from down the road. “She’d be glad you’re here now, son,” he adds, something pointed in his tone that strikes deeply.

Merlin nods, and hunches further into his cheap coat to escape the biting wind. It is still more finely made than anything the people of Ealdor have.

No one says they are sorry for him. No one says much of anything at all.

The pyre burns hot on his face.

—

She haunts him that night.

 _Merlin_ , she says. Her hand is around his throat, relentless. His mother was a loving woman who never raised a hand to him; he is irrationally bitter that his last memory of her will be a violent one. It is his own fault, he knows. _For him_ , she says, _for him you left me to die alone. For him_. Her eyes burn, and he wakes, still breathless from the heat of the flame, still shivering from the almost-winter cold.

Tonight there is no mercy. He remembers this vision, better than any other.

—

Merlin leaves Ealdor at dawn; the cold is almost unbearable, but the badly-suppressed anger that consumes this town is worse. His horse plods along gamely, and Merlin tries to send a spark of warmth in thanks. It startles the horse, and Merlin has to hold on for dear life until the animal calms down.

They continue along steadly, Merlin unwilling to risk using any magic to speed up their journey, when he is suddenly hit with _terror_. The feeling of something battering at his magic. 

Arthur is in danger.

Merlin spurs the horse into a gallop, leaving behind his grief and his mourning. There is no time for feeling; he ignores the growl in his stomach that hints at hunger, and turns his horse down the road to the Mercian border, where he knows Arthur has been preparing for battle for weeks. Stupid, stupid; he should have been with him. How careless to assume that his wards would hold. The wind brings tears to his eyes and stings his cheeks to redness.

After two hours he realizes how futile his task is; he’ll never make it in time. There is no way to hide himself if he wants to save Arthur’s life.

He dismounts from the horse, sends it away and hopes it’s fast enough, and calls the dragon.

“Take me to the battlefield,” Merlin says. He climbs onto Kilgharrah’s back before the dragon can mount a protest.

“He will die one day, young warlock,” Kilgharrah says, almost kindly, as he takes off towards Mercia.

Merlin knows. _Mordred_ and _Camlann_ are two names he will never forget. 

But neither of them are here.

Kilgharrah’s powerful wings take them to the Mercian border in an hour; Kilgharrah hesitates, clearly wary of Camelot’s soldiers, before Merlin urges him down. Merlin has attempted to avoid forcing Kilgharrah to bend to his will, but Kilgharrah knows Merlin will not hesitate to do so if he deems it necessary. It is just another distasteful thing he has become. 

The battle pauses, almost comically, when the soldiers catch sight of the great dragon. Merlin dismounts on a nearby cliff, and Kilgharrah flies away, leaving him alone. He calls upon the clouds, and thunder rumbles as they gather above him. He makes a menacing figure.

Merlin searches for Arthur, and sees him standing; he notices a sorcerer in the opposing army gathering his strength, and sees a collection of snapped arrows around Arthur’s feet.

Before the sorcerer can gather enough strength to overpower Merlin’s shield, Merlin calls down the lightning.

It splits the air in two.

The earth cracks; the Mercian army staggers back in wonder as the Merlin’s lightning strikes down the sorcerer where he stands.

“Lay down your swords,” Merlin says quietly, calmly. The Mercians lay down their swords. “Retreat.” They look to each other, to their commanders, and slowly back away.

Merlin descends from the cliff. He does not fly, or float, or slide, or climb; in fact, he hardly remembers even thinking of the cliff face as an obstacle. Arthur will later tell him that he walked on the air, as though it was a staircase.

“My lord,” Merlin breathes, to Arthur. “My King.”

He looks around at the fear in Camelot’s soldiers’ faces, and does the only thing he can think: he kneels.

Arthur looks stricken. He turns to Leon, and finds no help there. He turns to Gwaine, who gives him a wink. Lancelot places his hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “My lord,” Lancelot says, “accept his fealty.”

It is fealty. Merlin feels the grass sway as the clouds part, and lets the unnatural sunshine – too bright, too clear – speak for him. _I am yours_ , the land says. _Take me, take me_.

“What you would do for me terrifies me,” Arthur whispers. “Because I've been selfish. I made you this. I’ve kept you by my side, when you should be as far away from me as you can run.”

Merlin kisses his signet ring, then the palm of his hand, then the beating pulse of his wrist. “I could never leave you,” Merlin whispers into his skin. He mouths, so quiet it is a wonder Arthur understands, “What I would do for you terrifies me too.”

Arthur’s hand breaks free of Merlin’s grasp, smoothing over his neck, the side of his face, the back of his skull. “It terrifies me,” Arthur says, “but– you. Oh, _Merlin_ ,” he says, “I could never be afraid of you.”

Merlin closes his eyes in gratitude. Arthur’s hand shakes as he presses another kiss to the top of Merlin’s head. He breathes. “I accept your vow of fealty,” he proclaims, voice so strong you would never know he trembled. 

Arthur turns to the soldiers behind him. “Magic is not our enemy,” he says. Merlin feels his words echo through his ribs, spill into the ground below him. “Magic is a weapon; its power and intent is in the wielder.” Arthur steps forward. “Today we have seen what sorcery can do. Today a sorcerer has sworn an oath of loyalty to the crown of Camelot.” He breathes; Merlin breathes. “From now on, magic users will be as other subjects of Camelot. They will be treated with respect, and dignity, and given a fair trial when accused of wrongdoing. Today,” Arthur declares, “we usher in a new era of peace! Today we release the prejudices of the past, and promise equality to those who we have persecuted in the past! Today dawns a new and brighter day in Camelot!”

The ground shakes with the force of the soldiers’ cheers, and Merlin cannot help but smile in spite of his regrets. How unnecessary the killing was; how naive this newfound hope is. The enemies Merlin has created cannot be defeated so easily.

But Arthur touches Merlin, and he accepts what he had struggled to know before; he is, for Arthur. He is the land and the magic that runs through her and the people who borrow it, and Arthur is the hand that wields him. A brighter day has dawned, and Merlin only had to lose himself to see it.

It is, among other things, a beginning.

**Author's Note:**

> so the characters who die in this are uther and hunith. arthur's grief/loss is briefly mentioned, but there is a large focus on merlin's feelings after hunith's death. this work is a canon au because arthur discovers merlin's magic before uther dies, but otherwise probably falls within canon pretty closely (it's been a while since i watched the show though so i could be wrong).


End file.
